Some Wounds Never Heal

It is not quite 10 years to the hour yet. We weren't even back in RI yet, still living in Southie at the time.

Around 4:30 am, I got up to change and feed Ben. He was a month and a half old and it was a cold February night in our drafty apartment. I needed to kill time while Ben drained his bottle so I headed into our little den. I turned on the TV expecting to occupy myself with my usual old school reruns. I never got there. Flipping channels, I couldn't believe that local stations were broadcasting live. It was too early. Or that national broadcasts were talking about RI. Nobody talks about RI.

The story was continuing to unfold and the number of people suspected to have died was high. It got worse and worse and worse and I couldn't believe it was so real and so close.

Ben drifted back to sleep, clean and warm and wonderfully oblivious to the world around him. I couldn't move. When Deech finally rose for work, I'd been sitting hours, just watching. The story came tumbling out of my mouth and I couldn't remember if we knew anyone that might have been there. As it turns out, we didn't. So many weren't as lucky.

A decade later and now we're back here living in Rhody. For so many, it's like no time has passed . Every year the anniversary arrives and the wounds are reopened for survivors and the families of the victims. I don't imagine you ever completely recover from something like that.

I found this version of the Hebrew prayer of the dead that seemed fitting for the occasion. Amen.